Ballads of Time
by SerenLyall
Summary: A Tolkien 30 day writing challenge based on a collection of songs. Mostly inspired by The Silmarillion, with a probable dash of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit as well. Day 4: Where Are We Going from Here by Blackmore's Night. On the Ice, Ñolofinwё reflects.
1. Day 1: Top Notch by Manchester Orchestra

**disclaimer:** Not mine :C

**rating / warnings:** This chapter: G / none. Related ratings and warnings will be posted with each future chapter.

**characters**: Elrond Peredhel, Elros Tar-Minyatur

**relationships:** Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur

**notes:** Am I an idiot for starting this in the middle of the month? With a lot going on? And a lot of other obligations taking up my time and energy? YOU BET. Am I doing it anyway? ALSO YES. Why? Because I am an impatient hoe! Who needs validation after she writes anything! So. Here we are!

I hope you enjoy!

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Day 1: Top Notch by Manchester Orchestra

_His brother looks him up and down and prophesies_  
_How all of this should end_  
_Said they're buried underneath the yard_  
_And no one ever listens... to physics_  
_All that I know, it's no way to fix it_  
_All that I know, it's no way to fix it_  
_All that I know, it's no way to fix it_  
_All that I know, it's no way to fix it_

The docks of Mithlond are bright with the midday sun, which slants down from a peerless sky. The heaven's blue is a blue enough to hurt the eyes, and the air is hot with the promise of summer just beyond the horizon. The gulls call as they wheel overhead, their cries raucous with longing—both for the sea beneath their wings, and for the heads of fish that the fishermen toss into piles on the docks—their shadows shimmering over the boards and planks laid out in long lines deep into the lapping waves.

The fleet of ships, formed in part by the felled timbers of the forest that had once dominated the slopes and cliffs where Mithlond now rose, lines each of the docks, bobbing slightly with each undulation of water, their masts mighty and their sails brilliant white. Their decks swarm with sailors checking rigging, and with men checking their luggage for the last time, women hugging and crying as they bid farewell to their Elven friends, and children running underfoot in excitement. The air is loud with laughter, with speech, with cries of "Ho there!" and "Heave to!"

Elros Peredhel stands with his hands clasped behind his back on the last dock, his twin brother at his side. He is clad in a loose robe over a high-collared tunic and breeches tucked into tall boots, a crown of silver resting upon his dark hair, cropped to his shoulders. His shoulders, broad from many long hours spent sailing and shipbuilding, cast a long shadow behind him—a stark contrast to the thin shadow of his brother.

"Must you go?" Elrond asks his brother. His voice is low and brittle-edged, like slate or shale or ash.

Elros turns from staring at the horizon, blue and endless, to smile at his brother. "You know I must," he tells Elrond. "My people—"

"They are not _your people_," Elrond snaps. "_I_ am your people."

"They need me, Elrond," Elros says softly. "They chose me as their leader—as their guardian, and their supporter, as their _king_. I cannot forsake them, nor the hope my presence and crown has given them."

"But…" Elrond trails off, and swallows thickly. But Elros reads in his eyes what he meant to say.

_But what of me?_

Elros closes the space between them and draws Elrond into a tight embrace. "I will never forsake you, brother," he murmurs into Elrond's ear. "No matter how much distance may come between us, I will always be your brother. _Always._"

"But…" Again Elrond falls silent, his arms rising to grip Elros tightly to him. "I will miss you," he whispers instead.

"And I you," Elros replies. He pulls away. "But this is not farewell for good," he promises with a smile. "You can come and visit me on our island as many times as you like—or as many times as Ereinion will allow you from his sight."

Elrond smiles a weak smile in reply. "Thank you," he says.

They had spoken of this before. Elros and Gil-galad wished for their peoples to be friends, and so Elrond himself had been selected as the official ambassador between Gil-galad's court and the newly christened Númenor. Elrond had smiled, and bowed, and thanked Gil-galad and Elros for the honor—and had not spoken to his brother of the pain he felt at his brother's impending departure.

_It is not goodbye for good,_ he had told himself, over and over and over again. _It is only farewell for a time._

That Elros's betrayal stung as much now as it had in those first, terrible moments after they had pronounced their separate Dooms did not matter, did not matter, did not matter. And Elrond _did_ see it as a betrayal—for was Elros not leaving him? Abandoning him? Cleaving himself from Elrond in an irreparable way, just as their choice of Doom had done? He was leaving with the intent of never returning; he was taking on the mantle and kingship of a people who were not Elrond's, who were alien to Elrond.

Elrond had no place in his brother's life any more—not as his brother, in any case.

"Are you angry with me?" Elros asks softly, lifting a hand to clasp one of Elrond's shoulders.

Elrond shakes his head. "No," he lies.

"I do not do this to hurt you," Elros says. "If I could have done this in any other way—in any way that could spare you this pain—I would have done so. You know that, do you not?"

"Yes," says Elrond, and this time it is the truth.

"Yet still you are angry with me," says Elros shrewdly.

Elrond smiles bitterly. "I never could lie to you, could I?"

Elros laughs. "Never, little brother."

Elrond closes his eyes, then turns to stare out at the horizon toward where Númenor awaits her people. He clasps his hands behind his back, much as Elros had, and for a second, with the sunlight silhouetting them, they could be a two-fold shadow.

"All will come to ruin," Elrond says softly, his voice only barely audible over the cries of the gulls and the slap of the water against the docks and the thrum of conversation in the air. "A great wave climbs, climbs, climbs toward the heavens, and though there is a cry for absolution, there will be none for her or for her people. The blood of the innocent runs down the slope of the mountain that forms the island, and drowns the streets of the mighty city covering its beeches, covering all in wrath and ruin. There will be no grace for any that yet set foot there—no hope for those who have made their home in the destruction of children and the murder of women and the rape of men." He shudders—and turns, and his silver eyes burn vacant and hollow and full of light. "All will come to wrath and ruin, Elros Tar-Minyatur—all to greed and destruction. But first," he says, even softer, even mightier, "all will be glorious."

He gasps, and blinks, and the vacant light flees from his eyes, leaving him only Elrond once more.

"What?" he asks Elros, who stands and stares at him.

"Nothing," Elros says quickly. "Nothing at all."

But Elros had never been able to lie to his brother either.

Elrond frowns. "What is it?" he asks again. "Tell me."

"No," says Elros. "No, I…I do not think now is the time for you to know what you just prophesied."

Elrond had prophesied before, though Elros had not: of the breaking of Beleriand, of Maedhros's death, and of a great fleet of ships bearing the Edain away from Middle-earth. He often did not recall what it was he had prophesied until later, however—until he needed the knowledge of it. Elros suspects that the same is the case now: that he, Elros, was meant to hear this warning and pronouncement of doom, but that Elrond was not yet to know its truth.

Elros smiles. "Perhaps someday," he says, "I shall tell you."

Elrond's frown deepens, but he relents. Elros is pale and shivering slightly, but Elrond knows this if nothing else: that Elros will not tell him that which he does not wish to say, under penalty of death.

A great cry arises from the ships. They are ready to set sail.

"I must go," Elros says.

Elrond nods, and steps forward to clasp his brother to him one last time. "Farewell then, brother," he murmurs, clutching Elros tightly.

"Farewell," Elros repeats. "Until we meet again."

"Until we meet again," Elrond echoes, then steps back and away, leaving Elros to walk up the gangplank of his own ship, which bobs in the harbor beside them.

Elrond stands at the end of the dock long after the rest of the farewell party has left, watching the fleet sail away until it is nothing more than a speck of shadow against the failing light on the horizon. Only then does he turn away and return to Gil-galad's court, wondering what it was that could have shaken Elros to his core.

He will not recall what it was he prophesied until it is too late: until the dream of Númenor's downfall comes to him while he is in his bed in Rivendell, and he wakens sweating and trembling, the taste of his ancient-spoken words echoing on his tongue. Only then will he remember—and he will wonder what the purpose was of telling Elros, from the beginning, that his legacy was doomed to fall into ruin.

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**end notes:** What did you think? Comment below and let me know!


	2. Day 2: Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons

**rating / warnings:** K / none

**notes: **Well, I really am doing well with this, am I not? Two days in and I am already behind. Though in our defense, our internet went out last night, so we simply went to bed. I hope I will do better in the future, though I can make no promises. In any case, here is prompt 2 of my 30 Day Tolkien Challenge.

This is from Orodreth's Point of View, just before Nargothrond fell.

Largely inspired by and for tumblr user princess-faelivrin.

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Day 2: Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons

But oh, my heart was flawed  
I knew my weakness  
So hold my hand  
Consign me not to darkness

* * *

_I am no hero._

I stand behind the gates of Nargothrond, sword in hand, breath stale in my chest, fear bitter on my tongue, and repeat the words to myself once, and once, and once again.

_I am no hero._

I could have been, once, perhaps. I am, after all, a Finwёan—the youngest son of the youngest house of Finwё, yes, but a Finwёan nonetheless. Nobility and heroism runs in our blood, or so my aunt Artanís says.

"You are strong," she told me once, tucking a finger beneath my chin and lifting my young eyes to meet hers. "You simply have not yet found your strength."

I nodded then, wide-eyed and childlike, my boyhood yet untested and untried. I believed her then, too, my cowardice as yet unfound and unproven. It was only later, after the light was swallowed and night came to Valinor, after torchlight and fire, after heated words and heated hearts, that I learned better.

_I am no hero._

I stand now, waiting for the throngs of Utumno to break through the last gate—the last paltry defense of this once-mighty and unbreachable safe haven—and wonder how we reached this point. Was it my cowardice? My uncertainty? My insecurities?

Surely, for what else could have brought such wrath and ruin upon my people and my kingdom?

_I am no hero._

Rather, I am the lesser son of greater houses, bereft of lordship but by the freakiest of chances, absent of nobility but in a last defense, wishing for heroism only in my darkest hours. Rather, I know who—and what—I am: a weak and broken-hearted child, who never found the nobility and strength that purportedly runs through my veins with the blood of my forefather.

For could someone greater not have forestalled this calamity? Would someone who had the strength of heart that I am lacking, the air of nobility that I no longer desire, the heroism that is so far beyond my reach I do not dream of it—would they have known better what to do? Would they not have known how to avoid this tragedy?

For it is a tragedy. My people are on the verge of utter ruin. That much I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt; Utumno is here, and there are too few of us to keep it at bay.

_I am no hero._

Before me, dragon fire licks at the final gate. A concussive _thud_ crashes through the air, and the timbers shake and rattle. On the other side, invisible for a moment—but not for much longer—come the shriek of Orcs, the howls of Wolves, the roaring of a Dragon.

I shiver, and it is the shiver of fear.

I do not want to die.

_I am no hero._

Yet death is before me, behind me, beside me. It surrounds me on every side, filling the vacant space by my sword hand, the air beneath my shield. I breathe of it, choke in it, drown from it. Death is here, and I can do nothing but embrace it.

I do not wish to embrace it.

_I am no hero._

Would a true hero not be willing to die, if their death was going to be sung of in ballads throughout time? Would not my aunt ride unto her death with a smile on her face? Would not my father sing his way into the ranks that promised his spilled blood?

Why, then, am I so afraid?

I do not want to die. I want to live—want to watch my daughter marry, watch my people flourish and heal, watch my kingdom grow. I want peace, and I want prosperity, and above all I want _life_: of the heart, of the spirit, of the body.

Is that a sin to desire?

Most likely. For I am no hero, and a hero would not wish exclusively for those things—a hero wishes for the glory of battle and the valor of death.

Not I.

But then, I am no hero.


	3. Day 3: All Along the Watchtower by Bear-

**ratings / warnings: **K+ / some canon-typical violence

**notes:** Wow, I'm doing so well. This is the second time in a row I've gone a day without doing one - and this time I don't even have a good excuse like my internet being out; I was just tired last night, and so didn't finish it. Ah well. Better late than never, I suppose?

Anyway, today's song is All Along the Watchtower, specifically the version by Bear McCreary. I hope you enjoy!

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Day 3: All Along the Watchtower by Bear McCreary

_Outside in the distance_  
_A wildcat did growl_  
_Two riders were approaching_  
_The wind began to howl_

* * *

The Witch-king shivered in the dark.

The night was deep and moonless, the only light that of the pinpricks of stars settled into the inky black sky. The trees rose up in shadow and might to either side of the invisible road down which he fled, branches interlocking overhead in soaring arches and reaching down to snag at the fragments of the cloak still tattered at the edges of his form. His horse lay dead a hundred miles behind him, heart burst and blood oozing from its open mouth, eyes wide open and staring into oblivion.

Yet still he did not falter, did not hesitate, did not stop. He could not, dared not, would not. Not until he had put a continent between himself and his golden ruin.

How had it come to this? How had all come to destruction and death? How had he lost it all—all of his power, all of his might, all of his pride? How had he fallen so far so fast, becoming nothing but a shadow of a wraith where, not a day before, he had been the mighty and feared ruler of a perverted Angmar?

_Glorfindel._

The name burned through him, settling in what remained of the ashes of his heart and setting them alight in a frenzied, hateful glow. He hated that Elf—that thrice-damned, twice-born warrior of golden hair and blue eyes, who burned with an inner light and an inner nobility the likes of which he had only ever dreamed of possessing, even before Sauron, even before the ring of power he had placed upon his hand. He hated him, and he yearned for him to be dead.

For was it not Glorfindel who had caused this ruin?

The sky had hung low over the battlefield of broken stone and stunted grass, thick grey clouds banded across the heavens to mask sun and moon and stars from sight. Long had the battle raged, each side vying back and forth for dominance of the field—and at times it seemed that the Witch-king would win, at others that he would be forced to retreat.

And then Eärnur had come from the north with his mighty horsemen, horns blowing and banners rippling in the wind of their passing, and the Witch-king and his army had been forced to flee. Yet even then, not all had been lost—the final nail in his coffin had not been set until the Elves of Rivendell had arrived in the glory of their raiment and with a clearing of the skies overhead, allowing moon and stars to shine forth.

What magic they possessed that could have cleared his skies, the Witch-king did not know—but possess it they surely did, for he lost his control over the winds of Angmar. It felt much as it had during the Second Siege of Imladris, in which the Witch-king had sought and assaulted the great Hidden Valley—but he could not account for that, for surely that magic had been brought against him by none other than Lord Elrond, of Maiarin descent; and Elrond was not among the forces of Elves from Rivendell.

Or had he been? Suddenly, the Witch-king was uncertain. Could he have passed unknown amidst the ranks of Elven riders, hidden and disguised from the Witch-king's sight?

He would never know.

There, at the walls of Angmar, the Witch-king had ridden forth in full terrible glory, mounted on a black horse, wearing dark armor. He had borne with him his mace and shield, and at his side his sword, wickedly pointed and cruelly sharp, and he had slain Elf and Man and Hobbit alike.

Until Eärnur.

The light of the torches held by thousands of warriors glinted from armor and blade, throwing ruddy gold and red light up toward the heavens. It filled the pitted ground with pools of yellow and smeared the walls of Angmar with shadow, flickering and dancing.

The Witch-king, from the back of his mighty steed, cleaved the head from one such torch-bearing warrior, sending his headless corpse toppling to the ground without a sound. His head thudded to the earth some ten paces beyond, mouth locked in a frightened and horrified scream that would never sound; the Witch-king's heart soared with glee.

Around him, the battle surged. The warriors all sought to reach him, and yet to flee before him—yearned to fight him and defeat him, but were driven away by the fear rolling from his shoulders and breath in waves. Many of them turned and ran rather than face him, throwing themselves onto the Orc pikes arrayed in a line behind the Witch-king; others faced him and died, either by his hand or by the hands of the Orcs following in his wake.

"Stand steady!" The voice was loud and ringing, commanding, full of authority and power. The Witch-king turned his head toward it—and there, riding through the ranks, came Eärnur himself, clad in glittering armor and mounted on a fine palomino stallion. He bore his shield and sword with grave purpose, and blood—black and red—was smeared across his breastplate and over one side of his helmet. Behind him rode an Elven warrior dressed in Rivendell's colors, bearing the banner of that hated Hidden Valley.

"Stand steady, I say!" Eärnur called again. "Fight the darkness—fight the fear. We have nearly won the day; do not lose hope!"

The Witch-king wheeled his mount around to face Eärnur. "Come," he cried in his rasping wail. "Come, Eärnur, son of Eärnil, and face me!"

The Elven warrior, helmeted and mounted on a massive black mare, spurred his mount forward—but Eärnur held out a hand to forestall him. The Elven warrior reigned his mare in, but sat and watched warily as Eärnur answered the challenge, urging his own stallion forward, through the battling throng.

He halted his horse half a dozen paces away, then raised his voice to the Witch-king. "Come, you foul demon," he cried, "meet your death on my blade!"

He attacked.

His horse surged forward, rearing and wheeling once he was in striking distance of the Witch-king's own mount. Eärnur brought his sword and shield up, hacking down with one and blocking the Witch-king's own blow with the other, sending a shiver down the Witch-king's phantom arm at the strike, which he caught on his gauntleted left wrist.

Eärnur disengaged and wheeled in again, bringing his sword in low and fast. The Witch-king deflected with his own blade—he had cast aside his mace not but a moment before Eärnur's arrival, for it had been damaged—then brought it up and in, hacking toward Eärnur's sword arm.

Eärnur was a fraction of an instant too slow. The Witch-king's sword grated through armor, flesh, then bone, tearing a chunk of flesh from Eärnur's upper arm before pulling away. Eärnur howled, then struck brashly. He hacked, chopped, savagely swung again, and again, and again, seeking to batter his way through the Witch-king's defenses.

Their horses danced around each other, darting close enough for their riders to strike before dancing away again, out of reach. Until, at last, the Witch-king dragged his mount's head around, slamming his shoulder into Eärnur's palomino stallion, sending his foe's mount reeling. Eärnur slid to one side a fraction of an inch—a fraction of an inch, and a fraction of an instant, too much.

The Witch-king raised his sword overhead and brought it crushing down toward Eärnur's helm.

Eärnur's horse, frantic at the sudden crowding, turned and bolted, bearing Eärnur away from the downward swing. He fought to regain control of his mount—but as the horse fled, the Witch-king let out a high and terrible, wailing laugh of glee.

"Come back, son of Eärnil," he taunted. "Let me finish what I began!"

The Elven standard-bearer, who had watched the entire fight, moved his mare forward, coming between the Witch-king and Eärnur, halting any pursuit. He did not speak, but he released his banner, allowing it to fall to the ground, and drew forth his own sword. It was a simple but elegant weapon, bereft of any high history or mighty deeds, but stained with the blood of a dozen or more Orcs.

"You believe you can defeat me when even the son of the king could not?" the Witch-king taunted.

Again, the Elven rider did not speak—did not even charge—but simply sat patiently on his mare, waiting.

"So be it!" the Witch-king shrieked, and kicked his horse into a gallop.

The mare reared and wheeled, pulling out of the Witch-king's way at the last second. The Elven warrior stabbed, then cut up and in at the last second, carving a slice of the Witch-king's tattered cloak from his body as he swept past.

Shrieking in outrage and surprise—it had been long and long again since anyone had managed to deal such a blow to him—the Witch-king wheeled his mount once more and charged forward, this time halting just within striking distance of the Elf.

They traded blows. Hack, parry, stab, slash, deflect. Their swords were a whirl of motion and speed. Something niggled at the Witch-king's mind—some recognition, some knowledge, some understanding. But it was driven from his thoughts as the Elf's mare snaked her head in to bite his own mount, sending the stallion squealing away.

Viciously spurring his mount back, the Witch-king struck again. Whoever this Elf was, they were exceptionally skilled with the blade—more skilled than any he had met, save perhaps Lord Elrond himself, who he had dueled in the forest of Eryn Galen, and before that on the Plateau of Gorgoroth—and for half a moment, the Witch-king entertained the thought that he might lose this battle—might be forced to flee, if he were to preserve his own existence.

Then, he saw an opening. It was a fraction of an instant, brought on as much by the shifting of the horse beneath the Elf as the Elf's own carelessness. It was a sliver of an opening, barely there and then gone—but the Witch-king took it. He stabbed in, in, in, and took the Elf through the stomach.

Still the Elf made no sound, much to the Witch-king's surprise. The Elf's horse skittered back, tearing him off of the blade, and red, red blood poured from the wound, coating armor and the hand that he pressed to his belly.

The Witch-king wondered if the blow would be fatal.

He laughed again, high and piercing and shrieking, and sneered, "You thought you could defeat me, _Elf_?" He spurred his mount forward, raising his sword, preparing to deliver a killing blow that he was not sure the Elf would be able to deflect, when—

The thunder of hooves. The Witch-king looked up, and coming toward him at a full gallop was none other than Glorfindel himself, brilliant gold on a brilliant white stallion. Terror froze the Witch-king's ashen heart, for he saw on the Balrog-slayer's face a mighty and terrible rage. Behind him rode Eärnur, seeming now to be nothing more than a small child riding in the wake of a great lord of old.

"Come, o foul demon of Sauron!" Glorfindel cried, drawing his sword. The Balrog-slayer's stallion reared in dominance of the Witch-king's own stallion, who shied away. "Come, and taste the steel of my blade and the salt of my wrath!"

The Witch-king turned and fled.

Where could he go now, though? He could not return to Sauron—not now, not yet, not on the eve of such a disgraceful defeat. He could not return to Angmar, for the Elves and Men had surely routed all of his army and cleansed the place of his presence—or were in the process of doing so.

He would go into the East and there diminish, he decided. Or, at least, bide his time. Bide his time, until he had regained his strength and purpose.

Yes. Yes, that was what he would do.

And then he would exact his vengeance on Eärnur.


	4. Day 4: Speed the Collapse by Metric

**rating / warning:** K+ / canonical character death

**notes:** I actually managed to finish writing this before tomorrow! Go me! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

Day 4: Speed the Collapse by Metric

_All the way from where we came_  
_Built a mansion in a day_  
_Distant lightning, thunder claps_  
_Watched our neighbor's house collapse_  
_Looked the other way_

_And then the storm was overhead_  
_All the oceans boiled and rivers bled_  
_We auctioned off our memories_  
_In the absence of a breeze_  
_Scatter what remains_  
_Scatter what remains_

* * *

The waves were receding from the shores of Númenor, leaving dry and barren rock stained with saltwater, fish flopping in desperation, and sharp-edged shells gleaming in the low, cloudy light. The air tasted heavy and strained, like copper and iron—like blood—making it difficult to breathe. The clouds hung low over the island, roiling and churning in their depths like the ocean themselves, green-tinged and yellow-hearted.

Tar-Míriel ran.

She had seen the receding waves from the tower on which she had stood that morning, watching the horizon for the return of her hated husband. She had seen them—and she had known what they portended, though never before in the history of Númenor had the ocean receded from the entire island, on every edge.

She had known—and she had guessed what had happened to her hated husband, and what was going to happen to the rest of her people.

And so she ran, slippered fleet flying and staggering and tripping over the broken rocks of the path up the half-forgotten holy mountain. If only she could reach the peak, if only she could throw herself at the mercy of Eru, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Behind her, there came a great roar like a dragon. Tar-Míriel turned, half-fallen against the ground, both grazed palms planted on the path, and stared in shocked horror as a great wave mounted toward the sky. Fear ran through her, cold then hot then cold again, devouring all sane thought in her mind.

_I must reach the top_, she thought desperately, and lunged once more up the path.

How had it come to this, she wondered. How had they, as a people, fallen so har and far that they deserved utter annihilation? Or did they? Was there yet hope for them? Could this fate be forestalled and foresworn, if only she could do or say the right thing?

She remembered the altar in the temple to Morgoth, stained red with the blood of children, of women, of men who had dared to speak out against Sauron. She remembered the great throne of Sauron there, presiding over the wanton pain and death. She remembered the burning braziers, red and hot and full of fire. She remembered the screams, the pleadings for mercy, the tears.

_We slew children,_ she thought. _We slew children, and for what—for immortality? To worship a demon lord we thought could save us from the Void? _Then, _Do we truly deserve absolution and forgiveness?_

Somehow, she was not sure they did.

Still, though, she had to try.

Her breath came in her throat like sharp knives; a pain grew in her side. But still she ran, stumbling as her toes caught fallen chunks of rock, using the wall of the cliff-face beside her to propel herself onward, panting and gasping in fear and shock and pain. Her palms bled, and sweat gathered on her brow and in the small of her back—but still she ran.

Below her, she could hear the screams of her people as they saw their doom approaching. There was terror in their screams, and desperation, and a great and terrible knowledge. She wondered how many of them were on their knees—to Morgoth, to Eru, to the Valar—begging for forgiveness, begging for absolution. She wondered how many of them were attempting to flee toward the docks, to reach a ship and ride out the wave cresting toward the heavens. She wondered how many of them were simply staring at their doom approaching, waiting for the wave to overtake them and end their lives.

Was it useless, her attempts? Was it hopeless? Or would there be some good that came of it?

She did not—could not—know. She could only hope, and pray.

She reached a switch-back, which she took at a full sprint. She slipped and nearly fell, caught herself, pushed herself up, and pressed on. Above her, she could see the ancient temple to Eru at the peak of the holy mountain, forgotten and left to crumble into the sea.

Beneath her, the wave struck the shore. It swept over the land, climbing higher and higher, crashing over rock and tree and building alike without prejudice. The screams of her people rose in frantic height—and then, abruptly, were silenced, one by one, two by two, a hundred by a hundred. The groaning crack of toppling stone ground through the air, mixing with the rushing of mighty water and the dragon roar of impending doom.

But still, Tar-Míriel ran.

She felt spray upon her back, upon her neck. She turned, frightened, to see the wave sweeping toward her.

"No!" she cried, speaking at last. She scuttled higher up the mountain, eyes turning back unto the holy peak. "No!" she cried again, "please!"

The wave climbed higher and higher still, sweeping toward her. She fell, gouging bloody tracts through her knees and palms, even through her dress. She clambered to her feet and went on, the rain of saltwater soaking her back.

"Please," she begged again, half a sob, half a scream.

But if Eru heard her, he did not listen—for in an instant, the great wave had overtaken her, grabbed her, and swept her from the side of the mountain, dragging her down, down, down into the depths, away from the holy mountain, away from redemption—away from grace.


	5. Day 5: Where Are We Going from Here by-

**rating / warning:** K+ / some mild implied violence

**notes:** I'm doing SO great with this. Maybe it'll be done by November, lol. ANYWAY, here's Day 5. I hope you all enjoy! Also, this turned into more of a character study than an actual story - kind of similar to Day 2. I hope you can find it in yourself to enjoy it anyway!

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Day 5: Where Are We Going from Here by Blackmore's Night

_On a long road, miles to go  
It's winding and cold and it's covered with snow  
But I ask you what we all want to know  
Where are we going from here?_

_Lines on my face, lines on my hands  
Lead to a future, I don't understand  
Some things don't go as they're planned  
Where are we going from here?_

* * *

The Ice is cold. That, above all else, Ñolofinwё knows.

The cold eats at him, sinks into his bones with hooks and ivory teeth until he chatters with it, shakes with it, trembles with it. And chatter, shake, and tremble he does, though he is wrapped in a fur cloak sewn from the hide of an ice bear they had slain not three days into the trek.

It had come upon them suddenly, with vicious roars and flying spittle. It attacked, with claws as long and sharp as daggers, with fangs that could pierce through an Elf's shoulder and come out the other side, with a thousand pounds of muscle and sinew and bone. It had slain two Elves before Ñolofinwё managed to even draw his blade and step forward.

Its hide was thick and luxurious, and had been enough to form cloaks for Ñolofinwё and all his children. Yet he knew that he was one of the lucky ones; most of his people wore sealskin or patchwork fox furs. Few had the luxury of an ice bear's pelt—and still he shook with the cold.

He had tried to give his cloak to another many times—and had succeeded once, when a child was in need. The child had died that night anyway, however, and the parents of the little girl, even in their grief, had thrust the cloak back at Ñolofinwё, saying, "For you, my lord. We would have you survive, even if no one else on this ice does."

And so he travels, wrapped in white fur, sealskin gloves on his hands, boots on his feet, shivering and shuddering from the cold that eats at him. And he wonders, constantly and far from idly, how his people have survived when he himself is so frightfully cold.

Night bleeds into night, and day passes without marking. There is not light to guide their way but the coldly glittering stars overhead—no Telperion, no Laurelin to mark the passage of time. There are only the stars. There is only the wind. There is only the snow and the ice and the frightful creatures that emerge from caverns and caves hollowed out from the ground below, snapping and snarling and killing, killing, killing.

Blood stains the ice. Ice stains the eyes of those who succumbed to the darkness and the freezing air. The eyes of those who yet live grow more and more hollow, more and more vacant, more and more dead.

This Ñolofinwё marks, unlike the days that pass. He wonders how many years they have spent crossing the Ice—and silently counts all that they have lost. Day by day, night by night, when he wakes in the facsimile of morning and before he loses consciousness when his people have gone farther than they can muster, he remembers the names and the faces of all those who he has lost on this great and terrible journey.

Should he not have gone? Should he have turned back when he had the chance? Should he have thrown himself at the feet of the Valar and begged for their mercy—not to save himself, but to save the lives of his own people who follow him unto their dooms?

Is he leading them all into death? Or will some of them yet survive the crossing? And if they do survive, will any of them be strong enough, after all of the death and hardship and despair, to continue on? Or will they all fade away into ghosts of who they once were, becoming fragments and shells?

This he does not know—cannot know, for he cannot see the future.

He can only hope—hope against hope, hope against despair—that such will not be the case. That such will not be the future of his people. That such will not be their doom.


	6. Day 6: Hellfire by Barns Courtney

**rating / warning: **T / Graphic depictions of violence and gore

**notes:** Well I think I'm just going to try to get one of these up every other day. That's a reasonable goal, right? Right? Anyway. Enjoy?

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Day 6: Hellfire by Barns Courtney

_Hellfire, hellfire  
Take my soul  
I'm waiting, waiting  
I'm ready to go_

_Mothers, children  
Lock your doors  
I'm waiting  
I'm ready to go_

_Burn in an alleyway  
Through a dead end street  
Murdering promises that I just can't keep_

* * *

The streets ran red with blood.

The dead were everywhere: littering the streets, filling the gutters, lining the alleys. Men, women, and children alike—some few armed with spears or short swords, most of them dressed in sleep clothes and hastily donned boots and cloaks—lay hacked to pieces, arms and heads severed from their bodies, entrails spilled onto the cobblestones, throats gaping smiles of blood and bone.

Fire crawled up the edges of Maedhros's vision, claiming building and air alike with demanding fingers and a vicious roar. Faint and dying screams of pain, of desperation, of the dead, echoed through the night, reaching for the stars and Ithil's waning light. The smell of offal and fear permeated the fire-kissed heat, heady and heavy enough to coat the tongue and drench the throat.

Maedhros stalked between the firelit shadows, naked blade gleaming in the ruddy light and dripping scarlet wounds. His face was smeared with more blood, his hand dripping with it; the hems of his pants were drenched, his breastplate splattered. He was a vision of fire and death, his long, fiery hair hanging loose around his shoulders, the firelight accenting the furrows carved into his face and neck.

A shadow detached itself from an alleyway and approached at a smooth walk. He was darkness, he was night—black armor cloaked in black, with dark hair and glittering, silver eyes like stars. He was doom, Maedhros thought—he was death incarnate.

Maglor.

"Greetings, brother," said the youngest remaining son of Fёanor. Amrod lay in a pool of his own blood on the docks, pierced a dozen times over by the swords of the city's defendants, who Maedhros had slain in hatred and vengeance a moment after. Their bodies lay hewn in the waters of the sea, bobbing up and down with each undulation, their blood turning the waves crimson.

"Greetins," said Maedhros. He stared around himself: at the fire, at the blood, at the death. A child lay at his feet, and it took a moment for him to realize he was treading on a stained, stuffed bear that the girl had undoubtedly been holding when she was murdered. His hand trembled—and then steadied.

_They invited this upon themselves,_ he told himself, and looked once more at Maglor.

"The city is ours," said Maglor. "Now all that remains is the Lord and Lady of the city's house, which yet stands defended."

"Then we go and breach their gates," said Maedhros.

They found a pitched battle raging when they arrived at Lord Eärendil's and Lady Elwing's house. The lord and lady's personal guards were fighting the Fёanorians with savage desperation at the gates and in the street, even as more and more of Maedhros's and Maglor's men arrived to aid their comrades. The fighting swelled, the clangor of metal against metal ringing through the fire and night, the shouts of the wounded and the shrieks of the dying punctuating the distant groan of buildings collapsing.

They joined the battle, throwing themselves onto the nearest Sinda guard with furious battle cries. The Sinda fell with head cloven in by a mighty swing of Maedhros's sword, surprise and fear alike etched onto his face. Then the two brothers moved on, circling each other like flame and shadow, dealing death and damnation wherever they paused.

Then, abruptly, there was silence. The last of the guards lay dead in the center of the gate. It looked as if he had been trying to close the gates against the Fёanorians—though that would have only held them for so long.

Leading the way, Maedhros stepped over the guard's corpse and into the courtyard beyond. It was eerily silent and absent of death, save for the curled, brown stalks of plants that had already died at autumn's touch. His boots echoing on the flagstones, he crossed to the front doors, and pushed them open.

A flash of silver and a blaze of light caught Maedhros's eye. He hurried forward, just in time to catch a woman's voice cry, high and shrill, "Take your brother and hide!" And then more movement, and before Maedhros could even comprehend what his feet were doing, he was racing forward after the fleeing shadow of silver and light. Down a corridor, around a corner, through the kitchens, then out a side door and into the night once more he followed the shadow, a blast of cool, nearly-winter air striking his blood-stained cheeks.

"Halt!" he cried, leaping forward in a savage burst of speed. But the woman—Maedhros was certain it was an Elf-woman, by the slightness of her figure and the swiftness of her feet—ran faster still, dodging ahead of him down the garden path and then through a side gate and onto the cliffside beyond.

Behind him, Maedhros could feel more than hear Maglor following. His brother had always been nearly-silent when he ran, even armored—and all the more as the years of their Curse and Oath had eaten away at their sanity and nobility. Now he was as much shadow as he was Elf, as much death as he was alive.

"Halt!" Maedhros called again as he reached the gate and exploded onto the grassy clifftop beyond. He angled his footsteps to one side and sprinted forward, opening his stride on the open and straight ground. Behind him Maglor came on, blade drawn and dripping, ready to follow his elder brother's lead.

The woman turned and fled the other way, Maedhros cutting off her first attempt at escape. But Maglor was there in an instant, hemming her in on the other side, pushing her toward the cliff and no escape.

Still she ran, this time straight for the edge of the sea. She slid to a halt—and turned, and Elwing Dioriel stared at them with hatred in her eyes and the Silmaril in her hand.

"Come no further," she snarled, and her voice was far from the kind woman all the tales said she was. Her voice was that of a she-wolf cornered. "Come no further, or I will throw the Silmaril into the sea for it to be lost forever."

"You do that," Maglor said coldly, "and we will slay you where you stand."

"No," said Maedhros. "I think not, brother. I think that, if she does that, we should make her suffer for her crime first."

Maglor turned and looked at his brother. "Oh?" he asked.

"We will find your sons," said Maedhros, "I understand you have two, and we shall slay them in front of you—and only then, once you have screamed in your loss and your sorrow, will we take your life."

"You would murder innocent babes?" Elwing asked, stricken.

Maedhros smiled cruelly. "You ask that as if we have not already, this very night. Now hand us the Silmaril, and we will allow you to go free."

"You will not," said Elwing. "I know you will not. You are murderers and thieves, Kinslayers and without honor. I have no proof that you will not kill me—or my sons—for trying to keep the Silmaril from you in the first place."

"You have nothing but our word."

"Your word means _nothing_."

"Then what will you do, o Elwing the Fair?" Maedhros asked.

Elwing smiled, and took a step back. "I remove myself from the equation," she said. "I take myself from the picture, in the hopes that you will find pity in your hearts for my sons, and my people, and leave those of us who remain alive. I die, so that you may not kill me—or my children."

"What—" Maedhros began, even as Maglor shouted, "No!" and lunged forward.

But they were too late. Elwing took one last step back, away from them, and then turned and flung herself from the edge of the cliff.

She fell, fell, fell, her body crashing toward the waves and rocks below. Maedhros ran forward in a futile attempt to grab her, to pull her back, to snatch the Silmaril from her hand. He reached the edge of the cliff—and there, rising up from the waves, was a large, white bird, the holy gem they had so ardently sought bound to its breast.

They watched the bird fly away from them, disappearing into the darkness of the seaward horizon. Then, slowly, Maglor turned to Maedhros and whispered, "What have we done?"


	7. Day 7: Natural by Imagine Dragons

**notes:** Wow, I'm doing SO well with this challenge, aren't I? This fic has even been written for a few days, and I'm only just now getting it posted. WHOOPS.

Also, sorry, this is another painful one. Someone asked for something a little lighter. Unfortunately I could not provide...

I hope you all enjoy, even in spite of that!

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Day 7: Natural by Imagine Dragons

_Deep inside me, I'm fading to black, I'm fading__  
__Took an oath by the blood of my hand, won't break it__  
__I can taste it, the end is upon us, I swear__  
__Gonna make it__  
__I'm gonna make it_

* * *

They slay the Elf standing guard over the tent—what is one more life on their hands? one more heart's blood on their souls?—and steal into it like thieves in the night. _But, then, that is what we are, is it not? _Maedhros thinks, laying his hands upon the first of the two bags lying on the table within. The bag gleams with holy light, even through the thick leather, casting white shadows across the inside of the tent walls.

Maglor is behind him. He takes the second of the leather pouches, and then together they sneak out of the tent, feet soft in the grass. They bear swords on their hips, daggers at their waists, but no other weapon or armor; this was not meant to be a war, or a battle, and so they had not dressed for such. If they had been stopped, if they had been defended against, both brothers had agreed that they would die on the swords of their kin.

But they were not. There is no one to stop them as they flee the tent city on foot; no guard halts them, only nods in deference and respect to the lats remaining sons of Fёanor as they pass. They are not even challenged when they reach the border of the encampment, only bowed through the gateway and down the road.

And then they are free. They turn to look at one another, eyes wide in the darkness, and cannot believe that the Oath that has driven them to such wrath and ruin has been, at last, sated.

"We did it, brother," whispers Maedhros, pushing aside all guilt and remorse and horror at what he had done to reach this point.

"We did," says Maglor, but there is bitter sorrow in his voice. Maedhros feels that same bitter sorrow within his heart, but will not give voice to it. "What now?" he asks.

"Now we separate," says Maedhros. "They will surely pursue us as soon as they realize what we have done and what we took."

Maglor nods, his dark head nearly invisible in the darkness.

"Farewell then, brother," says Maglor. "Until we meet again."

"Until we meet again," repeats Maedhros, and he turns the other way.

He is three leagues away before he dares to open the pouch and pull out the Silmaril from its depths. He is half lost within a splitting forest, half of the trunks shattered like matchsticks and foliage hiding the game trail he is following, the ground heaving every so often beneath his feet with groans and the sound of cracking stone.

The jewel falls into the palm of his hand, gleaming white and brilliant like a small star in the glade in which he had stopped. For a second—an instant, a heartbeat, a breath—all was as it should be: bright, and beautiful, and perfect. The Oath, which had devoured his heart and soul and mind for so many centuries, was at last silent within him; the Silmaril was stunning, breath-taking, and instilled in him a sense of peace and rapture that he had been missing ever since that first, fateful night of darkness.

And then, abruptly, comes the pain.

Maedhros screams, the Silmaril burning his palm, his fingers. His hand spasms around it, clutching it closer to him as once more the Oath sinks its cursed teeth into him, refusing to allow him to throw it away. It burns—oh Eru, it _burns_.

Maedhros can feel the skin bubbling on his palm. He can feel the flesh peel away from his fingertips, baring blood and bone. He screams again—and beneath him, the ground shudders and groans, creaks, tears.

He falls to his knees, still screaming, unable to bear holding the Silmaril any longer, unable to bear to let it go. He is caught, trapped in between to impossibilities, bound between to dead ends. He cannot release it and so forsake his Oath; he cannot hold it and let it burn him to ash.

Despair swallows him, devours him, consumes him. He has his prize—has sated the need in his soul for this holy gem—but in doing so he has rendered himself incapable of holding it. What, then, is left to him? What, then, can he do? What, then, is there left to live for?

The ground buckles, and then with a loud and ear-splitting _crack_ the earth tears open in the glade before him. The night's darkness is swallowed by the hellish glow of the depths of the world, the Silmaril's light by the ruddy red of fire.

Maedhros's scream goes on, and on, and on, echoing and reechoing between the trees and stones and sky. He staggers to his feet, staring down at the Silmaril clutched within the burning prison of his fingers, one thought in his mind only: _Let it end._

He stumbles forward, tripping on the stones and chunks of earth that have broken free from the buckling ground.

_There is nothing left for me,_ he thinks. _There is no hope, no life—nothing but despair. _

What is there, then, but to end it all?

He reaches the edge of the chasm that split open. The fires of the earth roar beneath him, reaching for the sky, for the air, for the freedom of the world. He stands there for one long, terrible second, staring once more at the Silmaril searing in his hand, still screaming.

_I am sorry,_ he thinks, though he does not know to whom he speaks—to Elrond, to Elros, perhaps even to Maglor. _But there is no hope for me. I have lost myself in the pursuit of this gem—and it has rejected me. There is no hope for me now, no life, no purpose. There is only my sins, and only judgment._

He leaps.


End file.
